


You Can't Stay Once You're Gone

by Sophie_ab_95



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Canon Compliant, Fluff and Smut, M/M, Or Trying To be Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-22
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:18:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22360135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophie_ab_95/pseuds/Sophie_ab_95
Summary: The truth is, Harry is never going to be able to forgive Zayn. But that doesn't mean that they can't have sex. Or conversations. As long as they kept their feelings aside.The thing is, Zayn doesn't really want Harry's forgiveness. He doesn't even want Harry. But resisting Harry Styles is not a talent he's ever possessed.
Relationships: Zayn Malik/Harry Styles
Comments: 4
Kudos: 51





	1. PROLOGUE - APRIL 2015

_Like indecision to call you_

_And hear your voice of treason_

_Will you come home and stop this pain tonight_

\- Blink 182

Harry returns to London from tour feeling like he is the ghost of the person he used to be. As soon as he steps inside the house he knows Zayn has cleared out his stuff. The cupboard is half empty, Zayn’s house slippers are gone. He’s left some of his tshirts inside the washing machine though. And Harry is grateful for that. He picks up the black Pink Floyd merch and slips it on and goes to sleep. It almost feels better now that he can smell Zayn.

The boys are supposed to start working on their fifth album. Harry can’t bring himself to call themselves a band any longer because Zayn’s gone. Their manager, who isn’t Paul Higgins, and who Harry cannot stand informs them that the studio is booked for certain dates.

Louis scoffs and says he’s going to be working on the album from LA. Apparently he just doesn’t see the point of having to do the sessions together anymore if “one of us can fuck off mid-tour without any consequences.” Louis’ temper is at the worst ever since Zayn left and Harry just doesn’t have the patience to deal with him any longer. He is almost glad that he doesn’t have to deal with Louis.

Niall announces that he is not going to be able to write for the album, his knee surgery is scheduled and there’s a long recovery time. He’s been oddly quiet the last few days and looks at everything with a heavy amount of mistrust. Liam, bless his soul, offers to spend his time divided between LA and London, writing with both Harry and Louis. He’s like the father in an odd custody battle between his two kids.

It takes Harry nearly two weeks before he can get out of bed every morning and not have to think about what he is supposed to do next. It’s almost like he has to school his feet to move along. Put the coffee on, take a shower, shave, get dressed, try and force down and piece of toast or half a pancake. Once all that is done, the rest of his day is easier to manage. Go to the studio, try to pretend everything is fine in front of everyone and get through each session without breaking down in front of them.

The first few days are the hardest. The first few days he has to sit in the parking lot before he goes inside the studio, letting himself breathe for a minute, letting himself yell in the close confines of his car – the car he and Zayn had bought together.

“This is the most boring looking car in the history of mankind,” Zayn had complained when they’d been driving back from the showroom.

“It’s responsible, Zayn,” Harry had said. “Responsible and safe.”

Staring out the window in the lounge of the recording studio, not talking to anyone, he keeps to himself and pens down lyrics that break his heart every time he tries to sing them. That’s when people start to ask – when he gets choked up while singing. He nearly laughs when Liam asks him – very gently, with concern written all over his face – if he’s holding up alright.

“In a manner of speaking,” he says. He can’t bring himself to explain exactly what his heart, his whole body, mind and soul feels like.

Moving from day to day like this is easier than Harry has imagined. He keeps himself busy with stuff – if he isn’t in the recording studio he’s surrounded by people who care about partying more than him. He avoids things that may set him off. He doesn’t work out at their old gym in London and he stops ordering pizza from their regular place. The first time he tries, the owner answers, and when she asks if Harry wants their usual, he just hangs up the phone. He switches to Chinese. Zayn always hated Chinese food.

In the second week, early one Sunday morning, there is a knock on the door so loud and powerful he thinks it might come down if he doesn’t answer it. He’s been sleeping, which is all he does now if he isn’t working or finding a quiet place to break down. He stands in front of his sister Gemma, his own hair all over the place, his boxers slipping from his hips that are narrower than they were even a month ago. Not eating much for fourteen days has taken a toll. He’s tried, but everything turns bitter in his mouth. Not even his favourite ice-cream is much comfort, so he stops trying more often than not.

Gemma knows. Of course she does. She knew there’s something wrong when no one returned her calls. When their mutual friends texted her, worried, and said that they can’t get through to Harry on the phone – he isn’t returning their emails or texts, and Zayn isn’t either – Gemma knew then. So she takes matters into her own hands and turns up at her brother’s house.

She doesn’t say anything at first, only looks at him for a beat and then goes to the bathroom. One toothbrush. One razor.

Brushing past him, she goes to the bedroom; half the clothes are missing. Only one laptop. Socks all over the floor.

“Gem, if you’re looking for something, I might be able to hel-” His words are cut off because Gemma is clinging to him suddenly, her arms around his shoulders in a fierce hug, her breath on his cheek as she kisses him.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispers. Harry finally tightens his arms around her waist and pulls her close.

“Me too.” He sighs heavily. And its true: he is sorry. He is sorry it happened at all, sorry he couldn’t fix things, sorry it’s over, sorry he hasn’t called her, and now he’s sorry that he tried to get through it all alone because he forgot how good his sister is at this. Gemma has always been merciful and sweet and good at taking care of anyone but herself.

“When?”

“When did it all go to hell? Or when did he leave?”

“Both?”

Shaking his head as he reluctantly steps back and lets her go, Harry shrugs. “Guess he packed everything up as soon as he arrived in London,” he says as he sinks down on the couch. “I don’t know how things got so bad that he had to leave the tour midway. He never said anything.” He tried to remember, to pinpoint it to a single day or event when Zayn had said that he wanted to leave the band in the middle of the tour. When he’d said that he wasn’t going to be able to hang on for six more months at the most. Harry cannot figure it out. He wants to ask Zayn, but he can’t.

“Everything seemed fine in Sydney, when the tour started,” Gemma says, trying to puzzle it out on her own.

“Right?” He nods, his chin starting to quiver, hating that he is so quick to tears – all his life, but now especially. They’d promised to see each other through the tour and then the next album. They had promised to have each other’s back when they start a conversation with the label about a break from the band. But Zayn’s gone in March. Just gone, leaving Harry to deal with the mess and to bring up the break in front of his completely reluctant and blindsided bandmates.

“Have you spoken to him at all?”

Cringing, Harry shakes his head. “Nope. Can’t. Won’t.” It should not have felt so humiliating to tell his sister that the man he loved left him without a single goodbye, but it does. “I don’t think I can bear to hear his voice… let alone have a conversation with him.”

“But this isn’t like Zayn at all. Why would he suddenly do this?” Harry can tell that she is confused as well as hurt because she thinks of Zayn as a brother too. He reaches for her hand and squeezes it gently.

“Because he is a selfish bastard is what he is. He left for Perrie? That’s the most bullshit excuse if I’ve ever heard one,” he murmurs.

“It’ll be okay, Harry,” Gemma says, resting her head on his shoulder. “It’ll take a bit of time, but its not always gonna hurt this much.”

The funny part is, Gemma is absolutely right – this whole thing is so unlike Zayn that if Harry wasn’t so mad and broken up about him leaving, he would maybe give Zayn a call and ask what the fuck came over him to do this. But Harry’s heart feels broken in irreparable pieces and he’s for sure not going to be the first one to call.

Then Zayn releases a solo song. Harry listens to it one morning while scrolling through Twitter. The melodious crooning of Zayn’s voice feels like a burn in Harry’s chest.

_I won’t mind.. even though I know you’ll never be mine._

It takes the constant dull ache in Harry’s chest only the length of the whole song to be replaced by white hot scalding anger.

Zayn’s final meeting with his lawyer, his manager and the record label feels like a nail to his proverbial coffin. By the time he packs up the stuff from the house he and Harry shared, he is beginning to doubt his decision. He’s finally started to notice his life outside the band, starting to notice the weather and a nice afternoon with his siblings at Hyde Park. Nothing interests him anymore. It’s like he’s left a part of himself with the band.

Its too late to change his mind though. He’s signed all the papers, given up his rights to all the songs – even the ones he’s wrote on – of One Direction and his mother is eager to get her eyes on him and her arms around him. She’s been so worried about him from the time he’s called her and told her that he is leaving the band mid-tour. She’d have come to London, but Zayn insists that he’ll visit Bradford once the formalities in London are done. He doesn’t feel like he needs to hide in his room at him parents’ house in Bradford or in their sofa anymore, but he does need to see his mother and sort his life out.

Seeing Simon Cowell for the very last time goes as badly as can be expected. He says next to nothing and lets Simon bully him about “big solo ideas” and his “lover boy Harry.” The whole time Zayn just wants to get out of the room.

“You’re not to see the boys till I say so,” Simon sneers. “That’s in the contract you just signed. You can’t be photographed together in public. There should be no friendly Twitter banter.”

Apart from all the extensive restriction, Zayn also loses a shit ton of money. But at this point he can’t seem to bring himself to care about it. He feels like he’s done living in London, where he’s afraid he’ll run into Harry somewhere once he’s back from tour. Where he is haunted by memories at every turn. He is tired of avoiding their café, even though he’s sure Harry will never go there again either.

What hits him the hardest is he is nearly twenty four years old and moving back home to his mother. He cringes. He hasn’t lived in Bradford in more than five years. He hasn’t thought of it like that until he is picking up his luggage, looking around the apartment he and Harry has shared for almost three years now. The one with the hardwood floors and original moldings from the twenties. The one with a fireplace in the living room and windows that let the light in even on the greyest days.

He lets himself feel like a failure at everything in life for about three minutes and then goes down to the taxi that is waiting for him to take him to Bradford.


	2. Chapter 2

_How come the only way to know how high you get me_

_Is to see how far I fall_

_God only knows how much I'd love you if you let me_

_But I can't break through at all_

_\- John Mayer_

**APRIL 2017**

Harry sees him at the pub in the hotel where he is out celebrating his Saturday Night Live performance at. Actually he hears Zayn before he sees him. Hears his Bradford accent that sends an electric shock right through his spine. He turns around and there he is.

They lay eyes on each other at exactly the same moment. Its dramatic as hell and Harry is willing to bet that time stops around them. It takes only a few seconds for him to snatch a tissue from his table, borrow a pen from the bartender and scribble his room number on it. A couple more to shove the piece of paper into Zayn’s hand and exit the place, with a murmured bullshit excuse to his bandmates.

His ride in the elevator is dominated by a need to touch Zayn as soon as he can get his hands on him. That need is all he can think about. 

The need is all consuming. Crushing. Driving him insane. That’s what gets him and Zayn where they are at now.

Two hard cocks now pressed together through several frustrating layers of denim and cotton briefs.

“I need…” Harry groans against Zayn’s mouth as he kicks the door closed. “You can’t—”

_Leave me like you did before._

Harry dives in for another soul-drugging kiss before trying again. But the mental image of the two of them folded together like a pretzel is too much, mucking with his ability to speak. “I…damn—”

The words tumble chaotically in his mind. He struggles to arrange them in the correct sequence, but they escape without consulting his brain. A rambling mess of “need” and “can’t” and “now” randomly slip from his mouth between hot, messy kisses, in no particular order and with no particular meaning.

In a fumble of hands and flying fingers, Harry works on Zayn’s clothes because he wants them gone, gone, gone. Hips still trapping Zayn against the wall, Harry shoves Zayn’s T-shirt over his head, static leaving a few wayward strands of hair sticking up in all directions. Harry tosses the fabric aside and reaches for Zayn’s jeans.

Harry gets the button undone and grunts in victory, only to have things briefly deteriorate when Zayn tries to help with Harry’s shirt. Fingers skimming up Harry’s chest, Zayn hampers Harry’s efforts, slowing him down. And when Zayn reaches Harry’s nipples… Shit, now Harry can barely see straight.

He bats Zayn’s hands away. “Stop helping.”

Impatient, he wants Zayn naked now, because this isn’t just about getting off. An orgasm isn’t Harry’s only intent. He wants to be inside Zayn when he comes and to watch Zayn’s face as he does. He wants to see the colour rise on his cheeks and the dark, _I’m-so-close_ look in those brown eyes. He needs to feel Zayn’s cum spill on his skin.

Harry wrestles the front of Zayn’s jeans into submission, flicking open the zipper before plunging his hand down the front. Two frustrating seconds pass as Harry searches for the waistband of the briefs beneath.

Holy hell, he’s never felt so clumsy during sex before. His fingers finally tunnel inside and strokes the fully erect cock, hard, yet covered in the softest skin. Harry circles Zayn’s slit with this thumb, smearing the precum, and Zayn chokes back a sound that resembles something like a sob. And Harry?

Harry remains silent, so grateful to have Zayn back in his arms he can barely breathe.

“Off,” Harry grunts out.

Zayn complies, pushing his jeans to the floor and kicking them aside. Harry spins them both around and backs a gloriously naked Zayn toward the center of the room. His mouth consuming soft lips, Harry detects a hint of barbeque smoke and fresh air clinging to Zayn’s hair as he steers with one destination in mind. One purpose.

One goal.

When they hit the bed, Harry keeps moving forward, and they both tumble down, bouncing on the mattress.

Harry lands on top of all that bare skin and lets out a satisfied hiss. “Yes.”

One arm braced beside Zayn’s head, Harry bends forward, straining to unfasten his own jeans and still keep their lips sealed. The open-mouthed kisses turn downright filthy. Zayn meets him turn for turn, his tongue stroking Harry’s, but his hands remain wrapped around Harry’s biceps. Whether Zayn is holding on because of the insane pace or because he refuses to interfere again, Harry isn’t sure. With a grunt of satisfaction, Harry finally gets his jeans unzipped.

He only gets as far as unfastening the front before he pulls out his dick and lowers himself down, too eager to take the time to remove his clothes. Their cocks line up side by side as though they’ve been waiting for the two of them to get over themselves and get with the program, and Harry lets out a long, slow moan.

Because he so fucking agrees with the sentiment.

It dawns on him that he hasn’t asked Zayn if this is okay, if Harry is allowed to be here like this, stretched on top of him. But when Zayn groans and thrusts his hips in search of friction, Harry figures, at this point, asking the question will be pretty damn stupid.

“Lube,” Zayn gasps, followed by, “condom.”

And, yeah, asking for permission now will be about ten steps in the wrong direction.

Harry reaches into the bedside drawer and pulls out a packet of lube and a condom. Zayn tips his hips and spreads his thighs in invitation, granting Harry full access.

“Shit,” Harry says with a shaky breath.

He makes quick work of the condom and the lube, fumbling only for a moment, _thankyouverymuch_. Harry works Zayn open, progressing from one to two and then three fingers, barely taking the time to process the response of one before adding another. He knows he is going too fast, but Zayn simply digs his blunt nails into Harry’s arms and works his hips in begging counter-circles. He offers no resistance, only demands more. Zayn shifts his legs higher and settles them around Harry’s back as if to hurry him up. But Harry craves better friction. More contact. Hell, he needs leverage.

Harry hooks an arm under Zayn. “Hold on.”

He hauls him down the bed until Zayn’s arse reaches the edge and Harry can plant his feet firmly on the carpet. Not a second thought enters his mind as he lines up his cock with Zayn’s hole and pushes, bottoming out in one long stroke.

The tight heat envelopes his cock, and Harry lets out a hiss and freezes, his limbs tense. Fine tremors wrack his every muscle. He fights the urge to move as the words racing around his head since Zayn had left him two years ago — the words itching to get out when Harry first sees him today down at the pub — finally escape.

“This isn’t over,” Harry rasps out.

The feeling has been churning inside Harry since Zayn had put their friendship, or relationship, or what-the-fuck-ever this had all been on hold and left without so much as a goodbye. Harry pulls his hips back before thrusting again, and Zayn arches his back to meet Harry.

“I know,” Zayn murmurs.

Somehow, the admission feels horrifically inadequate. Harry presses his forehead against Zayn’s and repeats the process, near full withdrawal followed by a hard drive forward, burying himself to the hilt.

The harsh words sandblast Harry’s throat. “We’re not through.”

“I know.”

This time Zayn’s confession rumbles out like a perfectly tuned guitar, and there is no fucking way Harry can work up the proper amount of fear he knows his declaration — and Zayn’s response — should generate.

Shoving the thought aside, Harry begins a demanding pace he hopes like hell he can maintain. Time blurs. The bed creaks.

Until Harry’s breath comes in shuddering pants.

And because pounding Zayn’s arse and breathing aren’t complicated enough, Harry feels the need to maintain control of Zayn’s lips as well. So he pushes Zayn’s legs higher. With his elbows pressed against the bed, Harry jams his fingers into the man’s hair, holding his head still so he can devour Zayn’s mouth in time with his hips.

Zayn murmurs incoherently, nonsense sounds intermixed with mewling noises as Harry slams into him relentlessly. Fingers buried in Zayn’s hair, Harry pins Zayn to the bed, afraid he’ll suddenly change his mind about wanting this, about wanting Harry. But Zayn seems incapable of anything beyond spreading himself wider and begging Harry to take more. Even better, Zayn tilts into Harry’s hips every time Harry’s cock hammers inside.

The movements turn greedy and hot and hard, and now Harry barely pulls out before thrusting back in. “Zayn.”

In response, Zayn’s fingers bite into Harry’s arms, no doubt leaving marks by now. But Harry doesn’t mind. Sweat dampens Harry’s shirt, his back steaming, but he doesn’t care about that either, not while he is busy laying claim to Zayn. With so much to see, Harry grapples with what he prefers most. Zayn’s slack mouth or his eyes rolled back in pleasure? The desperate expression or the ruddy color of his cheeks? But, Jesus…

The sight of Zayn’s naked arse with Harry fully clothed made the moment better, hotter, more urgent.

Zayn sucks in a breath. “Please—”

Pleasure swells from the inside out, clenching Harry tighter, every sensation sharp. The cold teeth of Harry’s zipper presses against his cock and the rough rub of denim chaffs his skin. Inhaling enough oxygen becomes a real challenge. But still he wants Zayn closer, needs more.

And the weight of that want is fucking terrible.

Zayn sounds broken. “Harry.”

Harry glances down at Zayn’s cock, swollen and glistening at the tip. The vision sends the mother of all whammies slamming through him.

Desperation makes Harry’s voice hoarse. “Touch yourself.”

“But I’ll—”

“Do it now.”

Zayn reaches between them and gives several tugs in time with Harry’s thrusts. Precariously close to spontaneous combustion, Harry groans as his hips stutter, losing the rhythm. Zayn arches his neck, his spine stiff as a stick, white streaks of cum shoots up his chest, and Harry almost sobs with relief. He digs his toes into the carpet and gives one final push, pleasure incinerating every cell. All the air punches from his lungs, and Harry’s eyes roll back, his vision going black.

**OCTOBER 2017**

As the private lift takes him to the penthouse, Zayn wonders grimly if he is losing his mind. Is he really letting Harry drag him into another one of their messes? Did he really cancel his flight back to New York for an opportunity to…to do what, exactly? He cannot believe he is letting Harry sway him so easily only by saying he needs him. Not after learning all the lessons that he obviously failed at. Fucking unbelievable.

The lift stops and the doors slide open to reveal a spacious living room.

A lone figure stands opposite the lift, leaning against the back of the couch. Harry has his arms hugging his chest, his shoulders stiff, his green eyes wide, curls framing his face.

The room is eerily quiet as Zayn walks toward him. Harry watches him like a prey would watch an approaching predator. It’s pretty damn ironic. Zayn feels like he is the one caught and pulled toward the deceivingly harmless prey.

He comes to a halt a few inches away from Harry, crowding him against the back of the couch.

Harry swallows audibly, his lips parting. Zayn lifts his gaze from them to the green eyes and cups Harry’s cheek, his thumb resting against his throat. He feels a shudder run through the boy and feels his own body stiffen in more ways than one, the pull tugging him toward Harry and tightening its hold on him.

“You said you needed me. What for?” His voice is quiet, but it sounds harsh and sharp in the utter silence of the room.

“I…” Harry sways toward him.

They glare at each other, their uneven breathing getting louder, then mixing, the distance between them disappearing. With a small whimper, Harry buries his face in Zayn’s neck, his sharp teeth sinking into his skin. The next thing Zayn knows, he has his arms around him as Harry sucks on his neck like a hungry baby. Zayn’s cock twitches. It reminds him of the last time they’ve had sex. It had been heady.

“Shhh,” he says, burying his fingers in the silky hair and tugging hard. Harry moans, grinding against Zayn’s thigh, his hands slipping under Zayn’s shirt, stroking his chest as he continues to suck on his neck.

“Look at me,” Zayn says.

Harry sighs and lifts his head.

Christ. The way he looks…Glassy eyes, flushed cheeks, cherry pink, trembling lips… Zayn wants to lick him all over and eat him whole.

He inhales deeply, trying to get a grip, trying to gather some semblance of self-control. Its impossible when all he wants is to peel Harry’s clothes off, sink into him, and breathe.

The sound of a zipper being undone breaks the silence and then smooth fingers wrap around Zayn’s engorged cock, pulling it out of his boxers.

Hissing through his teeth, Zayn doesn’t look down, continuing to look into Harry’s glazed eyes.

Harry wets his lips with his tongue, his hand squeezing Zayn’s erection. “I need you,” he says, his voice cracking. “Please. It feels like its been too long.”

It hasn’t been too long. After their encounter in New York last April, they met up in LA in June, followed by a whole month of sneaking into each other’s London homes in August before Harry started his tour. Zayn thought that would be the last of it because Harry’s tour was exhausting – he’d almost asked Harry how he planned to complete it with a sane mind when Harry had shown Zayn his schedule. But Harry had called him as soon as he landed in New York from Chicago, and the whole day before Harry’s New York show they’d spent in bed – surprisingly enough, mostly talking.

Groaning, Zayn kisses those trembling lips now, and everything else becomes irrelevant, everything but Harry and his sweet, obscene mouth.

When the haze of desire clears from his mind a little, he finds them already in bed and he is pushing inside Harry. The tightness around him is almost unbearable. Thats what brings him some much needed clarity.

“Did I prep you?” he manages, locking his muscles in place. He can’t fucking remember.

Harry laughs breathlessly, blushing. “A little. I’m good. No condom, though.”

“Fucking hell,” Zayn swears and forces himself to pull out.

“Wait,” Harry says. He looks up at Zayn, his gaze heavy-lidded. “Can I trust you?”

The question feels loaded, the answer more complicated than he wants it to be.

“You can,” he says, holding Harry’s gaze.

Harry shudders. His legs, sprawled open with Zayn between them, spread even wider, and he hooks his ankles around Zayn’s hips, pulling him closer. “Okay, then. I’ve never done this without a condom before, but I want to. Don’t stop—Oh God.”

Gritting his teeth, Zayn pushes in a little deeper, the tight heat enveloping him, and goddammit, it feels...Harry makes a whimpering sound, eyes glazed, cheeks pink and lips swollen and slack as he pants. He looks completely gone already.

“Good?” Zayn says, and Harry nods dazedly, his cock lying heavy and full against his belly, flushed dark and wet at the tip. Zayn wants to touch it but knows it would be too much right now: Harry looks overstimulated already.

He watches himself disappear in Harry’s hole, fascinated by the sight of his cock splitting him open. Holding Harry steady by the hips, he slides in all the way, slick heat all around him and so tight its driving him insane.

Harry grabs at a fistful of duvet. “God, God, oh God.” He looks totally wrecked, his teeth chewing at his bottom lip, his dark eyes watering. “More,” he chokes out, and Zayn draws his hips back a little before thrusting back in, dragging his cock against Harry’s prostate. Harry whines, arching under him. Zayn does it again, his eyes fixed on Harry’s face, which is sweaty, wild, completely dazed, and beautiful.

Zayn strokes Harry’s thighs, holding them apart, thumbs pressed into the tender skin on the inside. He starts thrusting harder, low grunts leaving his throat. Harry gazes up at him with those wide eyes, his hair damp and darker with sweat plastered to his forehead, his cock leaking pre-come. He moans brokenly.

“I’m—fuck, I’m gonna—” he croaks out, and Zayn doesn’t even have time to process it before Harry shudders and comes untouched onto his chest, cock pulsing and twitching.

Zayn can only stare at him. It isn’t the first time Harry has come untouched, but its the first time he comes untouched thirty seconds into sex.

Groaning, Harry covers his face with his hands. “Oh my God, this is so mortifying,” he mumbles before peeking between his fingers at Zayn and starting to giggle madly.

A sudden wave of affection for this ridiculous man washes over him.

“Sorry, I swear I’m not actually thirteen,” Harry manages between bouts of giggles.

Zayn locks his jaw, because Harry’s laughter causes his inner walls to squeeze around Zayn’s cock, which isn’t helping his self-control at all. Goddammit.

Probably taking his silence for something it isn’t, Harry stops laughing. “Are you actually annoyed?” he says, a note of uncertainty appearing in his voice.

“Don’t be silly,” Zayn says, breathing deeply through his gritted teeth. “It’s fine.”

“Really?”

Zayn rubs Harry’s come into his soft belly in circling motions. “You look beautiful when you’re desperate for it,” he says. “You were perfect, babe.” Zayn blames his dick for all this sentimental nonsense coming out of his mouth. “You’re perfect,” he says, stroking Harry’s cock.

Harry’s eyes glaze over, his cock starting to harden again. “It’s just…. It’s always so good with you.”

Zayn pulls out slowly and pushes back in. “Good?” he says and sets a steady rhythm, watching Harry’s expression turn dreamy and far away. “Only good? I thought its great with me.”

Harry smiles at that, his eyelids heavy as he moves to meet Zayn’s thrusts. “Wanted only you. I missed y—this.”

The words jolt through his body. Zayn knows this is a dangerous road to go down, but he doesn’t know how to stop this train-wreck.

He rolls onto his back, taking Harry with him. “Ride me, babe,” he said, hands running over Harry’s chest, tweaking the pink nipples.

Harry nods eagerly, looking down at him through hooded eyes, his hair in disarray, his expression completely open and lovestruck. Zayn stares back at him, hoping he doesn’t have a similar look on his face. Shit, the way Harry has always affected him is ridiculous. He can’t drag his gaze away as Harry rides him languidly, his eyes becoming more unfocused as Zayn murmurs praises about how well he is doing, how perfect Harry feels around him, how perfect he is.

Before long, Harry seems completely zoned out, just sitting on Zayn’s cock and swaying dazedly.

Zayn sits up and, pulling Harry tightly to his chest, bucks his hips up, driving his aching cock hard inside Harry’s pliant body, causing Harry to moan against the side of Zayn’s neck and cling to him.

It goes on for a long while, with Zayn fucking the boneless body in his arms. At some point, Harry groans and sinks his teeth into his neck, coming all over Zayn’s chest and stomach, and Zayn finally lets go, his orgasm ripping through him with full-body shudders as he spills inside Harry.

When his head clears a little, Zayn finds that he has Harry cradled against his chest, his fingers carding through the moist curls. Harry is nuzzling into his collarbone, all but purring.

“Why is it always so good with you?” Harry mumbles again, still sounding half out of it. “Like, I feel like I’m in heaven when I give all control to you. It feels so, so good. Wanna feel this forever.”

Zayn reminds himself that Harry doesn’t know what he’s saying: he is still riding high on the afterglow.

Harry sighs. “Dr. Benson’s wrong,” he mutters into Zayn’s neck. “I think I have Stockholm Syndrome or something. I need help.”

“Then what do I have?” Zayn says. He regrets it as soon as the words leave his mouth.

Harry lifts his head and looks at him unblinkingly, his plump lips forming an O.

Resisting the urge to avert his gaze, Zayn wonders if Harry’s sentimental foolishness is contagious. Or is Zayn never going to learn his lessons?

Harry bites his lip but fails to suppress his smile. “Well, I’ve been told I’m very likable,” he says, as if sharing a huge secret, a dimple appearing in his cheek.

Zayn wants to kiss it. “This is not amusing,” he says tersely. “This is… an inconvenience.”

“Inconvenience,” Harry repeats, eyeing him curiously. “You mean your…attraction to me? Doing this together again?”

Attraction. The word doesn’t feel adequate. Zayn nods nevertheless. He sees little point in denying the attraction; it would be pointless, considering where his cock still is.

Harry pulls a funny face. “I’ll have you know this attraction to you is extremely inconvenient for me, too,” he says and looks at Zayn expectantly — almost trustingly. “What are we going to do about it, then?”

Goddammit, is Harry even aware of the way he looks at him? Zayn would like to say that Harry’s lovesick looks bother him or amuse him, but that would be a lie.

The truth is, he doesn’t mind.

The truth is, he fucking likes it.

The truth is, he wants Harry to keep looking at him that way.

“You used to make me really nervous the first few times when you got this look on your face,” Harry says amicably. “Like you’re about to bolt.”

Zayn slides his hands down the graceful curve of Harry’s back and settles them on his cheeks. “I’m not about to bolt.”

Harry smiles crookedly. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” He seems to hesitate before admitting, embarrassment colouring his voice, “You aren’t blind. It would be pretty pointless to deny I get off on pleasing you.” Harry rubs a hand behind his neck. “It shouldn’t be happening again. Can’t wait to get cured of this.”

“Cured,” Zayn repeats.

“Of my Stockholm syndrome,” Harry clarifies serenely.

Zayn feels a hot, irrational spike of displeasure. “Good luck with that,” he says, getting to his feet. He reaches for his boxers on the floor and slips into them.

“You’re leaving already?”

Zayn looks back.

There is an unhappy wrinkle between Harry’s brows, the corners of his lips turned downward.

“What do you want me here for?” Zayn says. “I’m sure your therapist would tell you that spreading your legs for your former lover isn’t conducive to getting cured.”

A rosy blush appears on Harry’s cheekbones. He chews on his lip. “Stay, yeah? If only for a bit. I want to show you something.”

Zayn knows he should not stay. He wishes he could say he doesn’t care about what Harry wants to show him. He does. There is no rational reason for that, no logical motive. He just does. Its frustrating, because Zayn doesn’t want to want any claim of that sort.

“Okay, show me,” he says curtly.

Harry beams at him, his eyes bright, dimples in full force.

For fuck’s sake.

“Now?” Harry says hopefully, eagerness and longing written all over his face. “I have it on my laptop here.” _Don’t go_ , Harry’s eyes say. _Don’t go_ , his body says.

It would have been cringe-inducing if Zayn doesn’t feel the same irresistible pull toward him. Only, unlike Harry, he can’t conveniently claim being affected by any sort of syndrome.

“Get the laptop,” he bites off and sat down on the bed.

When Harry brings his laptop to the bed to apparently show Zayn some new songs and snuggles up against him, Zayn doesn’t push him away.

He should have. Harry is a menace.

**JULY 2018**

Buttoning his dress shirt up, Zayn says, “Is there a reason you’ve been staring at me for the past ten minutes?”

Harry averts his gaze toward the window. With his knees pulled to his chest and his bare arms wrapped around them, he looks small and very young – almost like the nineteen year old curly haired boy Zayn remembers oh-so-well. The morning sunlight reflects off his messy hair and colours his high cheekbones with a healthy glow.

“You’re one to talk,” Harry says without looking at him, a small, rather forced smile curling his lips. He is in a strange mood.

Zayn eyes his profile for a moment before deciding he doesn’t have time to interrogate him. Harry had been particularly insatiable this morning, and Zayn is already running late because of him. Gigi, for all her nosiness, doesn’t deserve to be stood up by her date at her very important fashion show.

“I won’t be back till late evening,” Zayn says, slipping into his tuxedo jacket. “Will you be here till then or do you want to go back to your hotel?”

Ever since April of last year, Zayn and Harry have been meeting in secret every time they are in the same city together. It’s been over a year now. It had started out with only sex and then matured into something more. Sometimes they’d even have quiet talks over the phone, never discussing anything that would lead to a conversation about their past or their future. Zayn doesn’t know what this is but he is wise enough not to question a good thing when its happening to him.

Zayn never knew what it is he and Harry have together – not now and not during their band days. They are probably bad habits for each other, but Zayn hasn’t once been able to say no to him in his life.

Catching his lip between his white teeth, Harry nods, his gaze still averted. “Bye,” he says, his arms tightening around his knees.

Zayn pauses by the door. “Something wrong?”

Harry shakes his head, smiling crookedly. “Just still nervous about the show tomorrow night, I guess.”

Zayn isn’t convinced, but he really doesn’t have time for this. “I’ll see you tonight,” he says, opening the door.

“Wait!” In the blink of an eye, Harry is out of the bed and dashing toward him in a flurry of pale limbs and messy hair. He loops his arms around Zayn’s neck and presses his mouth against Zayn’s, his lips soft, plush and desperate, as if they haven’t just spent hours having sex.

Zayn chuckles, his fingers digging into Harry’s round buttocks. But he kisses back, taking charge of the kiss the way Harry likes. He is rewarded with soft, needy whimpers of pleasure as Harry clings to him.

“I told you I’m very clingy,” Harry says, chuckling against his mouth.

“Yes, I remember.” But Zayn really can’t stay a moment longer.

He pulls back, their lips parting with a wet smack, and clears his throat. “Let go of my shirt, Haz.”

Green eyes stare at him dazedly for a few moments before Harry practically jumps away and clasps his hands behind his back, looking flustered.

He blushes so prettily.

Zayn’s lips thin at the thought. He really should be able to be more detached the second time around.

The sooner he gets rid of Harry, the better. Because Zayn doesn’t think he can survive getting his heart broken by Harry one more time.

Without another word, he leaves the room, the door locking after him.

Zayn should have known that his luck is about to run out. But things are smooth and he is happier than he has been in a long time. Then he gets a call from his label. He knows what its about, he suspects its about Harry – even though they have been very careful, but his label has ways of finding these things out. So he expects a difficult conversation and he is prepared give his reasoning for why his relationship with Harry should not be a problem for either one of their careers at the moment.

What Zayn does not expect is to see Simon fucking Cowell sitting in the conference room at the head of the table looking like he owns the fucking place. Its all downhill from there.

“I know what you’ve been up to,” Simon says.

Zayn stares at him. He isn’t entirely sure what Simon means. He’s hoping it isn’t about Harry. “What?” he hears himself say.

“Canoodling with Harry Styles,” Simon says, tapping his fingers loudly on the table.

It seems Zayn has been too optimistic in hoping that this was going to last. No good thing ever lasted in his life. His ears begin to ring. He doesn’t want to hear what’s coming next because he’s pretty sure it’s not going to be anything good.

“What do you want?” Zayn says, staring at the table. He’ll probably throw up if he looks at Simon.

“You signed a contract,” Simon reminds him. “I could sue you for everything you have. End it.”

Zayn raises his head to look at the man who has ruined everything for him. For a moment, he considers defying him. What does he have to lose anyway? Years of going to therapy has taught him that happiness and peace count way more than bank notes.

But then Simon smirks at him and Zayn knows that smile. He knows its over.

“And before you try to be brave for your boy,” Simon snarls. “Let me remind you that I have photographs. Very compromising ones. You may be okay with letting your career go down the drain, but do you think Harry will ever forgive you if you ruined his career as well?”

Zayn’s heart crashes down to somewhere near his abdomen. His luck has just run out and there is not a thing he can do about it.


End file.
